


Asphodel

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Hades and Persephone, Mythology - Freeform, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4927360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You feed him the fruits of your summer, honeyed breath and pomegranate lips, skin like cream and flesh ripe with desire. And like fruit, he devours you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asphodel

**Author's Note:**

> For the Jon/Sansa remix, based on Hades and Persephone

Winter comes, and with it, life.

It is a contradiction, you are more than aware. For all the duty and detail of your days, you still have seemingly endless wells of time during the long spring and summer months to reflect on the intricacies of life and love. The sun that brings new green to the trees, the soft, loamy ground that accepts seeds with a lover’s welcome, the balmy wind's caress; you tolerate them all with a patience you never expected to possess. Once you reveled in summer. You didn’t know the bite of winter’s teeth, then. Now you long for it.

Now you yearn for winter, and when the world freezes, you bloom.

Whether he brings the winter or the winter brings him, you’re never sure. Frost ranges before him like a pack of baying hounds on the hunt. He follows with the snow, as befits a bastard son of the north. In a different lifetime he was your brother. Now the world thinks him a monster. Your body knows he’s neither and your heart knows that he’s yours.

He comes at dawn. Knowing he traveled to you throughout the night brings pink to your cheeks and joy to the girlish parts of your heart you’d thought were dead. “Sansa,” he says to you. “My lady. My Queen.”

His hands are like ice but they fire your blood everywhere they touch, your cheek, your throat, your breasts, your cunt. He caresses you and you burn. He tastes you and you melt. You feed him the fruits of your summer, honeyed breath and pomegranate lips, skin like cream and flesh ripe with desire. And like fruit, he devours you.

No winter could be long enough to sate his hunger, nor yours, but this is a familiar dance and you know it cannot last. You can only resolve to make it count. At least, for now, you fully exist. So you wash his back, rub sleep from his eyes with your thumbs. You have not married, but you are his bride, and so you care for him, cosset him, make much of his wounds and scars. They are old now, and he’ll gain no more – he _can_ gain no more – but if you could not be there to soothe him when they were earned, you can cluck over them now. He tends to you in equal measure, a quietly devoted gardener to a glass garden rose. The world around the two of you darkens and grows bleak with deepening winter, and you unfurl, alive and in bloom at last.

“Father,” you whisper as you pray in the godswood. “You would be proud.”

“Mother,” you think as you kneel in the sept. “I am happy.”

It only lasts so long. The dead cannot exist where life flourishes, and so Jon must leave you with the spring. You know little of his life beyond the Wall. By all measures of sense, you should be afraid of him. Perhaps in a different life, you would have been. You’ve never asked Jon what he does when he leaves you, but you’ve heard the legends. But then, if there’s only one thing you’ve learned in the passing of years, it’s that legends lie.

The world is warmer when he leaves you, but all you feel is cold at the absence of his touch. He will return; it’s all that allows you to let him leave. He’ll return for you and you’ll wait as long as needs be. He is your King, after all, and you his Night’s Queen.


End file.
